Frank Rictus: Detective

Frank Rictus put his legs on his desk

opened a drawer, and pulled out a pint

of Vat 69. He lit a Rothmans. After a long

pull on the bottle, he opened a different 

drawer and picked up the Ruger .44. 

He laid in on the desk, pointed away.

He blew smoke rings and drained the bottle.

The phone rang. He picked it up, put it down,

picked it up again and left it on the desk. 

After a couple of lines and half a handful of

bennies, he was starting to feel a little better.

Had it been worth it? He could’t decide. It 

seemed to have gone on forever. Good things

had happened, as well as bad. In balance, 

Frank considered he was about even. He

vaguely remembered the strong emotions he 

used to have…just that he had had them, 

but, there was no hangover of their intensity.

He was amazed he had been able to function

during some of those times, periods of his life.

He was amazed at some of the things he’d 

accomplished, as minor as they were. He 

couldn’t do any of them now. 

“What’s next?” he thought. His mind didn’t 

come up with much. “What’s left?” This too

didn’t offer much. There were some loose 

ends, but none of them amounted to anything.

Frank never believed in God. He felt, if you had 

to come up with a tag for the Absolute, It was

probably due to insecurity. He had a deja vu

that he had had that thought before. 

It was going to be a long night. He had to make 

a few phone calls. 

Three days later, the police broke into his 

office. Frank was still at his desk, a 

cigarette burned down to his fingers.